She let that sit, then tried another angle as she scrubbed at the baking dishI’dused. “Iknow you,Teddy.You’remadIhired someone without your sign-off.”
“Doesn’t matter,”Ilied. “Yourfarm, your rules.”
She shook her head. “It’sours.Youknow that.”
I looked at my hands, at the little crescent of dirt under one thumbnail, and tried to find a neutral response.Ifailed.
“She’s not going to last,”Isaid. “We’llbe worse off for having hired her.”
Jen kept scrubbing, unfazed. “Because?”
I hesitated, then decided to just let it out.Jendeserved to know what she was getting into. “She’sflaky.Shedoesn’t take things seriously.We… we actually met before.Shewas the one who got me fired from theRenFairea few months back.”
Jen set the baking dish down in the soapy water and turned to gape at me. “Thekeg of mead?”
I nodded.
“That’s what this is about?Seriously?”
“She cost me a job,Jen,”Isaid, a slight exasperated whine in my voice.Ididn’t like how childishIsounded. “She’scareless.Self-centred.Idon’t trust her.”
Jen leaned forward, bracing herself on the edge of theBelfast-style sink, thinking. “Peoplemess up,Teddy.Accidentshappen to everyone.”Shepaused, her eyes squinting slightly in concentration, as if picking the next words with tweezers. “She’ssmart,Teddy.She’sgot ideas.Reallygood ones, if you’d bother to ask.”
I stared, blinking, parsing through my thoughts in real time. “Thenwhy didn’t you discuss them with me, if they were so good?”
Jen’s face flickered with guilt, and she sighed affectionately. “Ididn’t want to upset you.Youalways want to do things yourself.Youalways think you’re the only one who cares enough to get it right.”
“That’s not fair,”Isaid, heat rising in my chest.Besides, that wasn’t the point.Itwasn’t about the way things were done; it was about the money.Whathiring someone else meant for me.Whywouldn’tJenacknowledge that?
“It’s true, though.”Shesoftened. “Iknow you want to be here.Iknow you want this place to succeed.Butyou can’t build it alone.NeithercanI.Weneed help if we’re going to grow.Ifwe want to make a difference.”
There was a long silence.Willowcould sense my emotion and came to curl up at my feet, her chin pressed to my shin.
Jen reached over and laid her hand on mine. “Lether help.Ifshe screws up, we’ll handle it, you and me.ButIreally don’t think she will,Ted.”
I wanted to argue– to say that a single mistake could ruin a whole season; a whole business– to tellJenthat, ifChloescrewed up,Iwouldn’t be here to handle it, because we’d spent all the money on hiring her– but, instead, what came out was, “Youdidn’t even ask.”
Jen’s eyes glistened, just a little. “You’reright.AndIshould have.I’msorry.Doyou think you can find it in your honey-glazed heart to forgive me?”
It was whatMomhad always said– thatIhad a honey-glazed heart.Toughto crack, but sweet.Ismiled despite myself; despite the fact that it didn’t feel like we’d actually acknowledged the problem.
“Nothing to forgive,”Imuttered.Onsome level,Imeant it;Ididn’t want to be fighting withJen.Shewas a big part of what madeGwenynenfeel like home.
“And you’ll giveChloea chance?”
I exhaled slowly– that one was harder.But, ifJenwas right, andChloehad ideas that could actually grow the farm, thenIsupposedIowed her the chance to prove that she could tough it out.Andmaybe– just maybe– that growth would help me stick around, eventually.
“Fine,”Iconceded, then picked the dish back up out of the water and handed it toJen. “Now, scrub, will ya?”
* * *
But later,when the house was quiet andIlay in bed, the question buzzed on, louder than any hive.
I reached for my phone to comb through the information yet again.Iopened the folder labelled “VISAS” and scrolled through thePDFsthe solicitor had sent last year: requirements for aSkilledWorkervisa, a cost breakdown of sponsorship and fees, the laughable estimate of what an “entry-level agricultural manager” was supposed to earn in theUK.Iknew it all by heart.Unlesswe tripled production, orJenwon the lottery, there was no way to swing it before next season now thatChloehad been hired.Toother businesses, it might have been a drop in the ocean.Butto a small, sustainable honey farm, it was the ocean entire.
I’d promised myself it would be different this year.Lessspending, more products, more events.Thesoap line, maybe some seasonal gift boxes, increasing the number of workshops– each was a desperate hope; a maybe.EverytimeIran the numbers now, it ended the same:I’dhave to leave at the end of the season likeIalways did.I’dhave at least one more year of my current reality, bouncing between a six-month stint inWalesand the rest of the year back inCalifornia.Sofar,I’dspent that time living out of my van and dodging calls from my dad, but my van had been on its last legs, soI’doffloaded it before flying over for the season, hoping the measly three and a half grandIgot for it would help with visa costs.So, wouldIeven be able to return to the wayI’dbeen living?WouldIhave to move back in with my dad?Thethought made my chest ache.
Speaking of whom,Ihad a voicemail notificationI’dbeen ignoring sinceI’dwoken up.Ilooked down at it, nearly pressed play, and then chickened out and dropped the phone onto my stomach.Ireached up absentmindedly and pinched my coin between my fingers, running my thumb around its circumference.
